


Catch you Catch me

by General_Button, OrphanText



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Collaboration, JohnlockChallenges Exchange, M/M, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:02:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Button/pseuds/General_Button, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrphanText/pseuds/OrphanText
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Original Prompt: Zombie!AU. John and Sherlock meet after the apocalypse has happened, and the world’s in a mess. They end up grouping up and ~fall for each other. I’m indifferent to the ending - be it happy or sad. Oh, and no M!Preg, gender-swap or Parent!lock, please. c: Any rating.</p><p>Or so they said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch you Catch me

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for asslock, part of johnlockchallenges’ gift exchange
> 
> Collaborative work between General_Button and OrphanText. We couldn't figure out a way to make the prompt believable so we twisted it ( well it still has zombies ) WE HOPE YOU LIEK.
> 
> Not really beta-ed. This was so long ago I'm not sure if its betaed but its cleaned up a bit now.

_Jesus Christ, how persistent can he be?_

_**** _

The dark shadow had been after him for more than ten minutes, and if it wasn’t persistent, John didn’t know what else to call it. Unfortunately his mind was rather preoccupied with finding a way to escape, glimpsing the tail end of a coat even as he rounded a corner, hot on his trail. _Fuck vocabulary_ , John cursed vehemently as he took another sharp turn into the dark alleys, not pausing as he ran by the rats and sundry vermin nibbling on overthrown and rotting garbage, aiming for the metal staircases winding up the side of the building. Perhaps there was a chance of shaking him off if he got onto the rooftops. Feeling his lips pull into a savage grin, he took a high leap, and grabbed onto the railings, a rather worryingly loud clunk sounding, and clambered over it, cutting himself in the process, red blood smearing across rusted metal, an oozing red. No matter – as an infected, the pain processing mechanism simply was too dull to work, or perhaps non-existent at all. And if he should be so lucky, the human behind him would come into contact with it, and get subsequently infected as well.

 

_Let’s see how much you would like to be hunted down and killed then._

 

This one was a strange one, John had to admit, even as he pounded up the stairs, not bothering to be quiet at all, before getting into the building, derelict and run down thing as it was, and making his way quickly to the roof. Humans, clever ( or stupid ) as they are, usually remained in groups, behind barricades, and when they hunted, it was a carefully planned and executed move. To have a single human out running around was an anomaly – though, if anyone would be an anomaly, this one would. This wasn’t the first time that he had encountered this particular human, and each time, he had gotten away successfully so far, with only a few scrapes and minor damage, bless the infected’s faster speed and strength ability. But this, this was as though he was on a hit-list chart, or something, with a bright neon sign singling him out to the tall and imposing man, whereupon he would immediately give chase to him if spotted, ignoring the other Infected that may or may not be in the way.

 

It was ridiculous. It was - _exhilarating_.

 

And if John didn’t know better, he might just say that he was flattered.

****

* * *

****

To any other person with a sane mind, he could be considered psychopathic. A deranged man. Obsessed.

****

After all, it wasn’t as if people normally chased one single infected whose identity they didn’t even know, while there were literally hundreds that flounced around, just waiting to be taken out. No, Sherlock Holmes was hardly as sane as the rest of them, but he was not _in_ sane and could arguably convince someone of this by the state of their shoes.

****

Like most infected, this blonde, elder male was swift. He wasn’t as fast as the younger ones, but even Sherlock was having a hard time trying to take him out. There were rare moments where he wanted to give up, throw in the towel and find another infected to bring down, but then he would see that look in his eye and go mad with want. He wanted to kill this man. He was an apt foe, if his patterns were anything to go by. Unlike most of the floundering fish around the broken cities, this infected knew what he was doing. As a military man (obvious), he made quick decisions that were most likely to lose his foe (which usually always happened) and Sherlock was left to curse and try to follow his path with all of the others interconnected, which made it a bit more difficult.

****

Sherlock had his suspicions that some infected worked together, distracting him just as he closed the distance between his target and he. It was infuriating. It was a challenge.

****

“Oh, and who doesn’t love a challenge?” he hissed to himself, lips stretching into a savage version of a grin. He paused for a moment, watching the blood and decay smear across the railings. He wasn’t stupid. Small space. Sherlock could come into contact with the disease. Pushing his gun into his pocket, Sherlock whipped out his leather gloves, ready to discard them at the ready (too bad; he liked this pair) and jumped, easily reaching the ladder. He was momentarily revolted when he felt flesh and blood squelch under his gloves, then made his way up the ladder, legs wiggling as he scrambled up.

****

He’d taken one second too long. The infected was already scurrying down the rooftops, taking no pretenses to stay silent. Sherlock aimed, trying to keep on target, but the infected was quicker.

****

“There’s no point in running! A military man like yourself should be aware that I. Don’t. Give up.” He fired a single shot, which blew off of the corner of the roof. Sherlock cursed and shoved the gun into his pocket, speeding up. He needed a plan. Something cunning that would leave his infected enemy dazed with shock and awe.

****

* * *

 

****

John could hear the taunts behind him, faint and distant, and felt his lips pull back in a snarl in response to the gunshot ricocheting off. Don’t give up, indeed! Whoever he was, this man was nuts - a brilliant nutter, though. _And however did he know?_ Without looking back, he picked up speed as he neared the edge, and felt his muscles bunch up, before he leaped over the side of the building, suspending momentarily for a heart-stopping moment three stories off the ground in the air, before his feet hit compact cement once more - _safe safe safe_ \- and he took off running again, heading into more infested areas, intending to throw the man off his scent. _Surely he isn’t as crazy as to jump across rooftops?_ As an infected, it is a given that they are able to clear long distances in a single leap, but for humans? Surely he isn’t crazy enough to risk broken legs to try. Still, curiosity piqued, he slowed down, turning around to glance at him, risking bullet shots himself, just for a moment, only to see his pursuant take the same, heart-stopping leap across the rooftops of the building, to nearly miss the edge of this one.

****

_Bloody hell!_

_**** _

He didn’t wait for the man to regain his balance, and instead turned, racing across the rooftops once more, intend on losing him, by drawing him into the more Infected populated parts of the derelict city. A dizzy exhilaration buzzed in his veins, and he almost let out a giddy laugh. Almost.

****

* * *

 

Sherlock’s adversary slowed for the merest of moments, glancing back to see if he would actually jump, no doubt. He would be the first to admit that perhaps the distance was a bit too far for any sane person to jump, but Sherlock wasn’t about to give up on the infected over a little distance, now was he? The madman didn’t take time to judge the distance or pause. Speeding up, Sherlock was a dark cloud before he whipped across the drop, heart thudding, aching in his chest, and landed on the other side. For a moment the man stumbled, blinking away the jolt that ran through his body, and then he was taking off. Sherlock wasn’t about to let a small spell of dizziness cause his target to escape.

****

With a wild grin—or what one might assume to be a snarl—Sherlock tore across the rooftops, glee rising with each step. Everything he had worked for, the days, the hours, they had all been for the sake of the case. And his case right now, the most intriguing creature to have caught his eye in these mundane times, was an animated zombie. Sherlock rounded on the corner, pushing against the wall to vault after the infected. Oh, this was going to be lovely. He could practically taste his victory.

****

Sherlock’s lips glistened with the swipe of his tongue as he drew near, fingers curling into the familiar motion—sequential to racing after a criminal. Dark curls whipped wildly in his vision, but they were a small hindrance. If he missed a single step, then the infected might get away. He was not about to allow such a thing—not after all of this time. Sherlock lunged forward even as his lips curled in a predator’s snarl, the smell of flesh and dirt and _everything_ mixing in his brain, cataloguing even as the tips of his fingers curled around the fabric of the infected’s outfit.

****

_Damn it_. Sherlock shrieked with inward frustration, almost losing him as his fingers slipped. He stumbled, however, and Sherlock pivoted on one foot, slamming his shoulder into the infected’s chest. He went down, hard, with Sherlock on top of him. He mentally praised his success as his eyes gazed at the man’s face.

The Infected gazed back, panting, his sense of balance compromised with his handicap, scrabbling for a knife that he remembered that he had dropped earlier on, struggling and pushing against the weight of the man that was on top of him, only to encounter the cold unforgiving metal of the man’s gun against his forehead, and snarled, baring his teeth, glaring back.

****

“Sore loser,” the human laughed, dark eyes glittering as he flickered over the infected, cataloguing, pressing the barrel harder against his forehead. “Let me take a look at you, soldier. You’re the only one who managed to evade me for so long.”

****

* * *

 

John only growled at the man, hands held trapped behind his back where he could gain no leverage. Damn the infection! He had been so close to getting away when the ground pulled itself from under his feet, the infection affecting his brain and his sense of balance and perception. He could feel the heat off the body of the other man, could almost scent the blood that was thrumming through his veins, and bucked his hips, growling in frustration, the long ignored thirst making itself known, demanding flesh ripped from bones, the warm copper tang of slick blood in the back of his throat.

****

“Don’t feel too bad for yourself,” the man said, still panting, trying to catch his breath, shoving John back harder against the hard ground. “No one’s managed to last so long.”

****

Perhaps it was the adrenaline, or perhaps it was something else, or maybe the struggling, that caused him to grind up against the other man, all high quality coat and lean muscles, when adrenaline made itself known in entirely another way. Entirely another highly inappropriate way, and John growled again.

****

“Fuck off,” he rasped at the man, his voice hoarse from long periods of disuse.

****

“Oh, so you can talk.” The man simply looked surprised, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “How interesting. What else can you do?”

****

John merely snapped his teeth at him.

****

“How enigmatic,” the curly-haired stranger drawled, shifting so his elbow was pressing just under the infected being’s ribs. “You must have a name. You were human once.” The stranger looked highly amused at this, narrowing his eyes when John’s hips jerked and slipped against his. A spark of something not exactly appropriate flared in his groin.

****

“I’m Infected,” the dishwater blonde man spat. “What makes you think that I know or remember anything? Maybe you should come a bit closer, and I’ll tell you.”

****

A deep throated chuckle sounded from the stranger. “So that you can bite me? I think not.” He could feel the butt of his gun digging into his hip under the large coat he adorned. The urge to rip it off—along with the dirt and grime (not to mention the infected matter that _must_ be hanging off of the seams)—was powerful. However, it hid most of what was meant to be. The more unsuspecting he appeared, the better. A bit redundant at this point, considering his efforts made to catch this specific infected man. He noticed in the back of his mind how attractive the dirty blonde male was, unrepentant when he acknowledged this fact.

****

Besides, it wasn’t as if _he_ was the one who was rubbing obscenely against his enemy. The male on top grit his teeth, biting back a soft noise when the man’s groin brushed his in a very distinct place directly. Spot on, that. “Will you stop squirming?” he snapped, jerking his hips down in an attempt to hold him still. “It’s not as if you’re going anywhere.” The blonde’s lips pulled into a nasty snarl before he _writhed_.  

****

Oh, he was going to get what was coming to him. Sherlock’s nostrils flared as he bore down, pressing their bodies closer together. The infected made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, eyes widening briefly as his hands clamped down on Sherlock’s shoulders, fingers digging harshly into the thick fabric. The coarse material rubbed against his fingers, sloughing off flesh. Sherlock might have found himself revolted, if not for the building pressure of his groin and the sudden distant look on the infected’s face.

****

Sherlock momentarily froze, considering the odd turn of events. The gun in his pocket was burning a hole; the instinct to shoot the man in the head was almost overpowering. If he simply reached behind him, it would only take a few seconds. He considered the option briefly.

****

This way was _much_ more fun.

****

There were just a few things he wanted confirmed before he offed the soldier. Sherlock could feel the evidence of his adversary’s arousal pressing into his, and marked it as strange that he should have sensory input, when the system should have shut it off upon infection. This was disturbing. Perhaps it was a sign of evolution? He shook it off. More urgent matters were pressing against his consciousness… and his hip.

****

Sherlock wrapped his slender fingers around the blonde’s wrists, pulling them up ( hoping his limbs wouldn’t pop off. A bit awkward, that. ) behind his head. The male under him thrashed even more, now shouting abuse at the man above him. It seemed that in times of high stress, the soldier wasn’t immune to brutish actions.

****

He eyed the zombie’s mouth, feeling a little disturbed at the thought of kissing it and possibly getting an infection. This was pushing even boundaries that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with. His tongue flicked over his lips again, before he sucked his lower lip into his mouth, experimentally bearing down to brush his hips against the infected man’s.

****

The reaction made his stomach curl with glee; the blonde’s eyes snapped open wide, then narrowed in suspicion. He repeated the motion with more force, earning another cut-off noise and a fierce glare. The man, however, ceased wriggling as much. Apparently he was as adverse as Sherlock to when it came to his limbs coming off. Fierce blue-grey eyes peered defiantly into his own, and before he knew it, the dangerous man below him was jerking his hips up to meet Sherlock’s, dragging a ragged sound from his throat. Unexpected. However, not entirely unpleasant.

****

With a pleased sneer, Sherlock began to _rock_.

****

His hips lifted slightly, and then he was brushing his swollen fabric-covered cock against the Infected’s with enough force that he expected the sharp sound of pleasure, followed by a snarl of discontent  (pleasure sensory seemed to have ripped him of his brain). The thick material of his trousers kept him from doing it as delicately as he wished, but it was working well enough; the infected was beginning to squirm, legs parting to accommodate Sherlock, to bring him closer. Breath hissed past his lips sharply when Sherlock slipped in between his legs, looking torn with embarrassment.

****

Sherlock wasn’t about to allow a change of mind. It was pertinent that he _lose_ his mind in basic human (or non, in his case) instincts. The pale man began to grind against the infected, his lips parting as high-pitched noises rose from within his throat, whines of pleasure that seemed far too loud in the empty area. What if someone came to see what was going on? What if another human came by and saw him rutting against an infected, cheeks beginning to flush?

****

He couldn’t bring himself to care, not at this point. Not when the man below him shuddered and began to move against him in earnest, limbs beginning to slacken.

****

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed against his own violation, soft exhales and moans slipping past his lips as he rubbed himself against the man he’d been chasing for days. His pants were growing uncomfortable as his cock swelled, twitching in its confines, but he wasn’t about to risk infection. Not this far into the game.

****

The pressure increased, as did the sound. Sherlock’s ears rang with his own heartbeat, pattering in its cage, deep groans of satisfaction never reached echoing. Sharp pleasure stung his groin and he could feel the wetness growing there. His hips swiveled and snapped against the man’s with frightening accuracy, trying to drive him further than Sherlock was. He needed to stay focused on the task at hand. It was far too interesting to get lost in pleasure.

Sherlock took back one of his hands, pressing his palms against his own groin. John was gasping sharply, a staccato of sound, too far gone to care. His arms lay pliant in Sherlock’s half-hold, stomach contracting as he attempted to thrust against Sherlock. “Christ, I—” He stopped himself, whimpering when Sherlock’s fingers danced across his linens that concealed nothing.

****

“What’s your name?” Sherlock snapped, remembering what his purpose was. His undulating became more rough, more insistent, eyes blazing. The Infected arched and cried out when Sherlock rubbed his fingers firmly against the fabric, thrashing his head from side to side. After so long with the unpleasant feeling of being a zombie, of decaying flesh and guns aimed at his head, it was an intensity that was threatening to undo what little of his mind was left.

He somehow managed to answer Sherlock’s question, choking on a deep moan. “John,” he panted, figuring why the hell not, if he was going to rut against this stranger for god-knows _why_.

****

“John _what_?” Sherlock growled, leaning down to balance himself on his elbows because his hands were beginning to shake. The pressure in his groin was growing, expanding and making his cock swell and leak. He groaned out a litany of medical procedures to attempt to stray the oncoming orgasm. The Infected below him was having no such problems, thrashing and moaning openly, wanton.

****

Now that Sherlock was more in reach, John slipped his hands arms Sherlock’s shoulders and heaved, back arching almost painfully as he hovered over the precipice of orgasm (somewhat illogical, considering the fact that the Infected did not have any form of blood circulation, which was conducive, and indeed, essential for an erection).

“ _Watson!_ ” he hissed, gasping for breath as his vision blurred. He was _right there_. So close it was painful. John bit his lip, unconcerned when he bit deeply into the decaying skin. He cried out, clinging to the man, hoping he would _move_ —

****

And then Sherlock moved away suddenly, almost ripping his arm out of its socket (gone slack in shock), and pointed a gun at his head. He grinned, face flushed, chest heaving and with an embarrassing wet patch over his trousers, but he looked _smug_.

****

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” he remarked casually, and then shot John in the head.

****

* * *

 

****

With a gasp John shot up from where he sat, heart still beating irregularly, eyes still wide with shock. One of the attendants that kept watch on the room at all times came down to help unhook him, either not noticing or not caring for the erection he was still sporting. He could still feel phantom fingers on his wrists, his body. He could feel the slight pain from where the bullet hit him, and then it was game over.

****

He was raging mad. _What an arsehole._ His cock _ached_.

****

John longed to press the heel of his hand to the swollen organ, relieve some of the pressure that had built and built and _built_ —

****

He shuddered. _Sherlock Holmes, what the hell._

_**** _

John unhooked the rest of himself and then took off the magnetic wave thing that was too complicated for him to understand (he had a feeling this Sherlock would) and stood up. He’d been out for—what? an hour? Two? It’d felt like an eternity in there.

****

John slipped from his comfortable seat, stretching out his limbs. He was too old for these kinds of things. What was someone his age doing playing a game like this?

****

His heart fluttered when he thought about that man. So pale, so beautiful. Was it a character image he created or was it really himself?

****

John walked up to the desk to get his things back. He received them delicately, as if he was still worried he was an apocalyptic zombie and heavy things might rip his limbs off. That had been a very strange experience.

“Did you enjoy your experience at the Virtual Reality Center—” She looked at his ID on the computer “—Dr. Watson?”

****

He smiled weakly. “A bit different from my day, but it was definitely interesting. And very real. I’m still worried my arm’s gonna pop off.” She grinned, and he wondered if she heard that all the time. He thought of Sherlock’s snarky grin.

****

“Do you know if a man named Sherlock Holmes has come by here recently?” he asked suddenly, surprising himself. The woman blinked, and then looked suspicious, attempting sympathetic.

****

“I’m sorry, Dr. Watson, but I’m afraid we can’t give out other visitor’s information.”

****

He wracked his brain for a solution. “How many of these places are there?” She typed a few keywords and then turned to him, much more eager for this task.

****

“Three specifically in London.” Great. That was a start. John bid her adieu and opened the doors into the bright light, wincing for a moment. _Jesus_.

****

Time to find Sherlock Holmes.

 


End file.
